Your World From Afar
by Schildkroete
Summary: In 1969 the Doctor and Martha were, for some time, living together in a flat.


It's the year 1969 and Martha Jones is working in a shop. It's not a bad shop and it's not a bad job, but she's a medical student – almost a doctor. She's a hero; fought against witches, Daleks, a living sun. The Family of Blood.

She's working in a shop.

This is not what she had in mind when she chose to travel the stars with a stranger. She should walk through the blue grass on another planet now, not be stuck in London, Earth, years before she was born. She should watch dragons fly through clouds of sulphur, should see alien cities, the ruins of lost civilisations standing tall again, just so she can see. Most of the time she has all theses things, full of wonder and horror, while she pays a visit to the cosmos with her alien and they live together, just the two of them, in their small wooden box, like brother and sister.

It's not what she had in mind either.

-

When she comes home he's usually fiddling with his devices. He tells her all about it, rambles about their function, their range, their use, never caring that she doesn't understand. Maybe he's been talking before she got home, she thinks with a smile – babbling through the days. He never stops to ask how she is, if she had a good day, hardy ever turns from his work long enough to look at her. There is a small kitchen in their flat and she goes there to put the kettle on while he's speaking to himself.

-

Some people are staring at her, some pretend she doesn't exist. Some treat her like a normal person and she can tell from their smiles that they feel special for it. They shouldn't be, but she's grateful none the less and smiles back. She's expected to smile at everyone but can't bring herself to do so. It shouldn't be like this, not in this year, this century. The people should be able to see beyond the colour of her skin.

Martha's parents grew up in another part of the city, but she sometimes wonders if it was like this for them. Only sometimes. She avoids thinking of her family too much.

An old woman mutters something ugly under her breath while she fishes for her money. Martha grinds her teeth. She can't afford losing her job.

-

He's home all day but she's the one who has to do the cooking when she comes back from work. Things like that never cross his mind and she's reminded he's not human. The Doctor never shares her meal, but sometimes he sits with her, drinking tea. He doesn't like being here. Doesn't like being stuck. Masks it with smiles, though, so she pretends not to notice.

Sometimes when she's at work she imagines him sitting at home, speaking to the empty room, his words a shield against the silence. She doesn't want to think that he only took her along so he won't have to talk to himself.

-

Her key is her most valuable possession. There is another key now, the one to her flat. Their flat. She turns it in the lock each evening and is happy, for a second, because she's stuck and she might not see her family again and she's working in a shop but behind the door the Doctor is waiting for her – she's living with him, and for a moment each day, just before she opens the door, she allows herself to imagine that he is also living with her.

-

On her day off he takes her out and they visit places, the countryside, just walk through the city. She would like to rest for one day, just lie around and do nothing, but the force pushing him forward never lessens, even if there is nowhere to go. He's running counter-clockwise against the days. It's futile but she lets him. Goes along and takes his hand so he doesn't get lost.

She loves him. Sometimes he knows.

-

Once she comes home and he's not there. When he returns in the middle of the night he explains that he's arranged everything for his Easter-egg to find its way onto the DVDs. It's almost morning, yet he doesn't try to be quiet, never considers he could be waking her but that's okay. She hasn't been sleeping.

Martha wants to be angry but the Doctor is happy and optimistic and hugging her, and then his hands, long and cool and reassuring, wrap around hers. She looks into his smiling face, counts the wrinkles that appear around his eyes when he laughs and wants to kiss him.

She doesn't. The rest of the night passes and she doesn't sleep.

-

Since she doesn't earn much their flat is a small one. One room, a kitchen, a bath. Martha always orders the Doctor to look away when she comes out of the shower dressed in a towel, always disappointed when he does.

There is only one bed, just broad enough for the two of them. Most nights he spends like the days, working at the table, but every now and then he lies with her, far too close to be so far away. Stares at the ceiling all night, while Martha lies beside him, wishing her heart would slow down and let her sleep. She's pressed against him, feeling his skinny frame, his lack of body heat, and imagines, though she doesn't want to, the sensation of that cool body against her naked skin, his hands in her hair and on her face and on her breasts, his lips against hers, one more time.

When he paces through the room, or sips his tea, she sometimes is reminded of a man who never existed and wishes he was a little more human.

-

He crumbles slowly. There's less to do now for him and more and more often he disappears, has to get out. She can't help him. Neither of them is good at waiting.

When the policeman from the future arrives she's relived. The Doctor is not the only one who wants to get away from here, even if he's the only one who won't miss the flat and the closeness.

-

In all the time Martha only twice sees him asleep. Once at night, beside her, the other time curled up on the bed when she comes home from work, and she watches him for a while, committing the sight to memory for she knows it is precious. Each time his sleeps grows restless and he wakes up screaming. Martha doesn't pretend not to be hurt when he refuses to let her comfort him, but it doesn't change anything.

In the TARDIS he sleeps alone and she wonders if he's just too used to fighting his nightmares on his own.

Once he mutters a name in his sleep and later Martha is ashamed for feeling relief when she doesn't recognize it.

-

She doesn't quit her job. One day she just doesn't go to work anymore. They didn't make any friends in the weeks they spend in the past, so her boss will be the only one noticing their absence. _Her_absence. The Doctor was never really there. He is a ghost haunting the past and the future, she thinks as she watches him bounce around the console, almost happy and completely out of reach. Then he sweeps her up and holds her and thanks her for everything, lets her chose the next destination, and she clings to him for a moment because she's a child, wishing for something she can't have, and everything is back to normal.

She loves him. Sometimes he loves her too, in his own, broken way. Loves her in the way he's holding her hand, in the excitement that comes over him when he can show her a new world he already knows, in the way he's happy when she is.

He doesn't love her enough to tell her why he's screaming in his sleep. Martha can accept that, because she has learned that he'll never let her come even a single step closer. She has grown up just that much.

-

One day, she hopes, she'll grow up enough to love him a little bit less.

February 6, 2007


End file.
